Burn for Burn (Burn for Burn 1)

Main Street is packed. Hardly any of the stores are open at this hour, but it doesn’t matter. Tourists just aimlessly mosey along, stopping at the windows to peer inside at the crappy Jar Island–branded sweatshirts and visors.

I hate August.

I groan as I push past them and make my way to Java Jones. If I want to be awake for the Puppy Ciao encore set, I’m going to need caffeine.

Puppy Ciao is playing at the music store where Kim works, a place called Paul’s Boutique on the mainland. Paul’s Boutique has an attached garage space where they have shows, and if it’s a band I want to see, Kim lets me stay the night at her apartment. She lives right above the store. The bands usually crash there too, which is cool. The singer in Puppy Ciao looked pretty hot on their album cover. Not as hot as the drummer, but Kim says that drummers are always trouble.

I take the stairs up to Java Jones two at a time. But as I’m about to push the door open, one of the workers twists the lock.

I knock on the glass. “I know you’re closing, but could you hook me up with a quick triple shot to go?”

Ignoring me, the worker unties his apron and unplugs the neon sign. The front window goes dark. I realize that I probably sound like one of the rich a-hole Jar Island tourists who think store hours don’t apply to them, the kinds of entitled snobs I’m forced to deal with all day at the marina. So I flick my half-smoked cigarette to the curb, push my hands deep into my pockets so my cutoffs sink low on my hips, and throw in a desperate, “Please! I’m local!”

He turns and stares at me like I’m a huge pain in the ass, but then his face softens. “Kat DeBrassio?”

“Yeah?” I squint at him. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

The guy unlocks the door and opens it. “I used to race dirt bikes with your brother.” He holds the door open for me. “Careful. Floor’s wet. And tell Pat I say ‘what up.’”

I nod and walk on tiptoes in my motorcycle boots past another employee pushing a knotted mop back and forth. Then I heave my bag up onto the counter while the guy makes my drink. That’s when I notice that Java Jones isn’t completely empty. There’s one last customer left.

Alex Lind is sitting alone at one of the back tables, hunched over a small notebook. I think it’s his diary or something. I’ve caught him secretly scribbling things down in it a couple of times, when he thought he was being stealth. He’s never showed it to me before. Probably because he thinks I’d make fun of whatever is inside it.

The truth is, I probably would. It’s not like hanging out for a few weeks makes us actual friends.

I’m not going to interrupt him. I’ll just get my drink and go. But then his pencil grinds to a halt in the middle of a page. Alex bites down on his lower lip, closes his eyes, and thinks for a second. He looks like a little kid concentrating on his nightly prayers, vulnerable and sweet.

I’m going to miss the dude.

I quick rake my fingers through my bangs and call out, “Yo, Lind.”

He opens his eyes, startled. Alex quickly slides his notebook into his back pocket and shuffles over so he’s next to me. “Hey, Kat. What are you up to?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to Kim’s to see a band. Remember?” I told him not five freaking hours ago, when he stopped by the marina on my lunch hour. That’s how we started hanging out. We met at the yacht club in June. I knew who Alex was before then, obviously. It’s not like our high school is huge. We’d never actually talked to each other. Maybe once or twice in art last year. We roll with very different crews.

Alex came by one day with a new speedboat. As he tried to drive away, he stalled out.

I threw him out of the driver’s seat and gave him a quick lesson. Alex was impressed with how I handled his boat. A few times, when I really gunned it, I saw him grip the sides, white-knuckled. It was kind of cute.

I was hoping he’d hang out with me today for the rest of my shift so work would be less boring. And because I knew he was heading out tomorrow for his fishing trip. But Alex left me to meet his friends at the beach. His real friends.

“Yeah,” Alex says, nodding. “That’s right.” Then he leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter. “Hey, tell Kim I said thanks again for letting me stay over, okay?”

I took Alex to see Army of None play at the record store in July. He’d never heard of them before we started hanging out, but now they’re his favorite band. I was embarrassed, because Alex wore a Jar Island country club polo shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops to the show. Kim gave me a look as soon as we walked in, because he was dressed so corny. Alex bought one of the band T-shirts and put it on right away. People who wear the shirt of the band they’re going to see play are lame, but it was better than his polo shirt for sure. Once the show started, Alex blended in just fine, bobbing his head along to the music in time with everyone else. And he was super polite at Kim’s apartment. Before he got into his sleeping bag, he grabbed the empty beer bottles and put them out in the alley for recycling.

“Do you want to come with me? The show’s sold out, but I can get you in.”

“I can’t,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Uncle Tim wants to set sail at dawn.” Alex’s uncle Tim is a balding perma-bachelor. He doesn’t have a family or any real responsibilities, so his money goes to toys—like the new yacht he and Alex and his friends are taking out on a bros only deep-sea fishing trip.

I shrug. “Well, then, I guess this is good-bye for real.” I salute him like a navy officer. “Have a good trip,” I say, sarcastic, because I don’t mean it. I wish he wasn’t going. Without Alex coming to visit me at work, this week is going to completely suck.

He straightens up. “I can give you a ride to the ferry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I start to walk away, but he grabs the strap of my bag and pulls it off my shoulder. “I want to, Kat.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

As he drives down toward the ferry landing, Alex keeps staring at me out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know why it makes me feel weird, but it does. I turn to the the window, so he can’t see me, and I say, “What’s with you?”

He lets out a big sigh. “I can’t believe summer’s already over. I don’t know. I feel like I wasted it.”

Before I can stop myself, I say, “You wasted it with your loser friends, maybe. Not hanging out with me.” And I hate myself for sounding like I care.